When to the Sessions
by Light Iniquity
Summary: Sometimes it's hard to let go of the past. An attic-cleaning vignette.


DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought  
I summon up remembrance of things past,  
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,  
And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste:  
Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,  
For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,  
And weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe,  
And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight:  
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,  
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er  
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,  
Which I new pay as if not paid before.  
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,  
All losses are restored and sorrows end.

--William Shakespeare, sonnet XXX

The door opened, filling the attic with light. Harry Potter choked, waving his hand through the stale air thick with dust. He threaded his way through the mess of boxes on the floor to reach the drawn blind at the other end of the attic. Sweeping aside cobwebs, he managed to raise it, letting daylight into the room.

The attic was a clutter of junk: everything from his old apartment that hadn't found a place in the house. Harry hadn't opened the boxes since bringing them up here seven years ago. There probably wasn't any point hauling them off to gather dust in the new house; still, he wanted to be sure there wasn't anything important here that he might have forgotten about before throwing it all away.

He bent down and swept a thick layer of dust from the surface of a nearby box. He choked again as seven years' accumulated dust rose to meet him. The label, now revealed, read: KEEPSAKES. He dragged into the path of light streaming in through the window and lifted the lid.

The smell hit him immediately and he reached in to gingerly pull out a disgusting woolen sock. It was faded green colour, with a pattern of Snitches and slightly lighter patches of mould: a Christmas present from Dobby many years ago. Its mate, a red sock with broomsticks was downstairs in Harry's sock drawer. Harry grinned. He'd wondered many times where the other one had gotten to, but it seemed unlikely that the decrepit sock could be saved. He placed it on top of a nearby box.

The box seemed to be filled with clothes, none in any better condition than the sock. There were seven Weasley jumpers, one for each year at Hogwarts. A similar collection sat on the top shelf of his wardrobe downstairs. He toyed briefly with the idea of salvaging the jumpers, but quickly rejected the idea when he imagined the look of horror that would meet an addition to the already impressive collection. He didn't really need more jumpers, anyway.

A few more odd socks, some moth-eaten flannel pajamas, and an old set of Kenmere Kestrels robes that Ron had bought for him when he tried out for the team--before he was rejected--made up all the remaining contents of the box. Harry piled the clothes back in and set it by the door, ready for disposal.

The next few boxes contained more practical items: a few old lamps, a muggle toaster that Arthur Weasley had finally managed to charm and reconstruct with a minimum of flaws (although it played an off-key wedding march whenever it was plugged in). A collapsible set of cauldrons, finely balanced and certified by Bubble Bubble Cauldrons Ltd. to survive most major explosions. Harry put it back in the box.

There was one box which held his NEWT revision notes and a few pieces of "background reading" that Hermione had insisted he get to prepare. Most had never been opened, but they bore the musty scent of age. Harry amused himself for a moment by flipping through his notes, realizing with concern that he had forgotten much of the information. Ah well, he probably didn't need to know the mating habits of the Plimpy anyway.

One box opened with a puff of purple smoke. Harry grinned. Here were some of the first pranks marketed by Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. Harry had provided Fred and George with some of the money they had used to start the company and they had returned the favour by using him as a test subject in their experiments. Harry had been turned vibrant shades of orange, pink and mauve, grown several extra arms, and spent a week believing he was a gerbil before he had stopped accepting gifts from the twin Weasley's. He decided not to risk going through the contents of the box and set it with the others by the door.

There were two entire boxes given over to the large photo albums Harry had put together during Sixth Year, when he had discovered the delights of Wizarding cameras that practically took the pictures for you. He paged through the albums eagerly, hoping to find fond memories, but most of the photographs were landscapes. One album was taken up entirely with pictures of a single--and very unremarkable--tree. Harry checked the cover of the album, which read: Creature Observation Project. Flipping to the back of the album, he found the notes he had taken on Streelers for Care of Magical Creatures. He set the album with the others by the door.

The remaining boxes contained mostly odds and ends: some twigs from his first Firebolt (broken along with Harry's heart by his first boyfriend, Anthony), his first paycheck from the Ministry of Magic, his lease agreement for the old apartment. An invitation to the wedding of Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley. A notice announcing the cancellation of the wedding of Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley.

Harry shook his head and dropped the notices back into the last box, ready to clear out the attic. As he did, a photograph slipped out of the papers. He picked it up and his breath caught in his throat.

* * *

It was the week before Hermione and Ron's wedding and Severus, Harry's lover and reluctant wedding date, had finally agreed to get new robes for the occasion. That was the theory, at any rate. Harry sat and watched as Severus snapped at the assistant that: no, he didn't care that lower collars and shorter sleeves were now fashionable; he did not want to wear violet, no matter how well it would offset his skin tone; and that the assistant probably wouldn't know the difference between Amanita virosa and Clavariaceae.

Harry started digging through the pile of discarded robes that the earnest young assistant had insisted were the "hottest new thing". A lot of them were in shades of purple and Harry set those aside automatically as lost causes. He also made himself set aside the form-fitting Wizi-wear™ robes on the theory that he would be the only one at the wedding ogling Severus; maybe he could get those for a different occasion. At last he found something conservative enough for his lover's tastes and went to rescue Severus' unfortunate victim.

The man was beginning to look somewhat frantic as he offered to show Severus something in dusty pink. Harry motioned the assistant aside and yanked the mauve travesty off of Severus, who gave him a grateful look.

"I don't imagine that you'll let me out of this hellhole now?" he asked Harry.

Harry shook his head and grinned wickedly. "Not until I find you something nice in orange," he joked. And dropped a new robe over Severus' head to muffle his indignant response. Severus emerged glaring, but Harry barely noticed; he'd been right. The robe fit almost perfectly, only a bit too short. It was a deep midnight blue, just light enough that it couldn't be confused with black. The collar was high, but lower than Severus usually wore, and Harry could glimpse a hint of the creamy throat hidden beneath it.

"We'll take it," he said, still staring at Severus, transfixed. "Just one second," he added as the assistant came forward with a box for the robe. Harry fished around in his pockets and produced a small camera. Severus glared at him through the offending object as Harry took his picture with a quiet click.

* * *

"Harry?" The voice came from the bottom of the attic stairs.

"Just a minute, Perce!" he called back, eyes still fixed on the photograph. Severus was glaring up at him in the picture, but with a softness around the eyes that meant he wasn't really angry. Harry finally tore his gaze away from the photograph and dropped it back on top of the pile. He stood and brushed off his robes before Apparating to the bottom of the stairs.

Immediately, arms came around him from behind and a head of red hair rested on his shoulder. "Find anything interesting?" Percy spoke into his ear.

Harry looked up at the pile of boxes at the attic door. "No," he shook his head. "Nothing but the past."


End file.
